


ain't that the way (love's supposed to be)

by fairwinds09



Series: Outtakes [2]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: (also featuring Very Jealous Scott), F/M, Mistakes have been made, Unrequited Love, a (mostly) happy ending, and in which Young Chiddy has a hopeless crush, friendships broken, in which we meet Young Chiddy, the bromance is still strong though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-07-08 17:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairwinds09/pseuds/fairwinds09
Summary: He doesn’t have a chance in hell with her, and he knows it, but it doesn’t matter. Lately, when he closes his eyes at night, all he can see is Tessa Virtue’s pretty face.(in which Young Chiddy has a hopeless crush on Tessa, and in which things do not go well for him)





	1. is he holding you the way i do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justtotallyplatonic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justtotallyplatonic/gifts), [fitslikeakey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitslikeakey/gifts).



> Yes, I know. It has been a long time since I have posted anything on this fine site. (Insert itsbeen84years.gif here.)
> 
> However, I am here now, somewhat tired, with multiple WIPs sitting on my Google Drive, and I have been tasked with publishing at least some of them. (And finishing them, which is not quite as easy.) So here we are. 
> 
> This little fic came out of a single line in Hat Trick, in which I referred to Chiddy asking Tessa out and Scott not speaking to him for a week. That idea took hold and bloomed, and lo and behold, we have this fic. I kind of retconned myself with this one, honestly, because Chiddy knows a lot more about the weirdness of V/M's relationship than he does in Hat Trick. Y'all will please excuse this mistake on the part of the author. I thank you in advance. 
> 
> For those of you who might be concerned about this premise, _of course_ Chiddy and Tessa don't end up together. But, realistically speaking, she was a very cute girl, and I assumed that naturally a lot of the guys she hung out with at Canton and at skating comps must have had a crush on her. And we all know my fondness for Chiddy's POV, so it was kind of a natural progression. I hope you like awkward, adorable teenage Chiddy as much I do - he's just tiny and precious and has no idea that one day he will win a gold medal in 2018. Bless him. 
> 
> Anywhoozles. I owe great thanks, as always, to other two members of my beloved writing GC, who have encouraged this fic from Day 1 and whose insight and assistance are absolutely invaluable. Thanks to all of you who have read and left lovely, encouraging comments on what I've written so far. I hope you enjoy this little slice of the Hat Trick universe - let me know what you think!
> 
> Fic title taken from the ultimate song about unrequited love - "Jessie's Girl." Chapter title from an old country song by Jim Reeves, "He'll Have to Go."
> 
> ~M
> 
> P.S. Yeah, I'm still working on Hat Trick. Sorry...it'll come back to me when it comes. Until then, hope this will suffice. :)

It’s almost time for the weekend, and Patrick Chan is _ready_. He’s beyond ready, actually.

He’s been bouncing back and forth between Colorado and Toronto for a couple of years now, and he’s fairly used to it. It’s a lot of travel, but he’s used to that, between tours and competitions. He misses having a home base, somewhere solid and secure to stay for months on end, but he’s coping fairly well. His mother is still...well, his mother. Always there, always wanting to know what’s going on, always asking questions. But he knows better than to expect that to end any time soon, even though he’s nineteen now, dammit, and technically an adult. (Emphasis on the _technically_.)

But what he’s been living for lately are the stops in Canton on his way back home to Toronto. There’s a whole crew there that he’s become friends with during tours and competitions and the endless cycle of travel, but most of all it’s Scott and Tessa, his closest friends since they were all juniors together - three tiny kids with a fierce desire to win and a talent for getting up to trouble backstage when the competition was over. (To be fair, it was mostly him and Scott getting up to trouble, but Tessa had been involved in her fair share of shenanigans over the years. Anyone who thinks Tessa Virtue is a haloed saint really should have another think coming.) He loves getting to see them once or twice a month, loves hanging out with the other skaters, and there’s something about being away from his coach and his trainer and his mother for a day or two that relieves the stress of competing like nothing else.

When he goes to Canton these days, taking a weekend out of his training schedule here and there, he stays with Scott and Andrew in the rather cramped little apartment they got last year. ( _Moving out on our_ own _, Chid!_ was Scott’s enthusiastic summary over the phone, static crackling on the line.) It’s a bachelor pad, for sure, all dirty clothes scattered on the bedroom floors, gaming consoles flung across the couch, and a permanent smell of nachos for no discernible reason. The kitchen is usually reasonably clean, but that’s because Scott yells at anyone who leaves dirty dishes in the sink. The kitchen is undeniably _his_ domain. But for Patrick, it’s wonderful - a little chaotic, definitely loud, and a taste of freedom so sweet he can feel it coursing through his veins like a drug. He bunks on the couch and never once complains that he gets a crick in his neck every time, doesn’t fuss about Andrew’s habit of clomping in singing under his breath at 3:00 AM on the nights he’s been with some girl he picked up at the bar, doesn’t argue when Scott wakes him up by sitting on his stomach and grinning widely. This is _heaven_.

And lately, there’s been something else drawing him to Canton on his travel breaks across country. He doesn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but there’s a part of him - a small, terrified part of him - that is starting to have _feelings_ for Tessa Virtue.

He knows it’s pointless. He’s short (thankfully, so is she), and small-boned, and his mother still runs about 95% of his daily life. He’s muscular, but in the way that figure skaters tend to be - lean, wiry, with legs that can bench press three times his body weight - but he’s not going to flex his biceps and have the girls come running, like Gaston on _Beauty and the Beast_. He’s smart, at least - fluent in three languages, just graduated from secondary, planning on going to college in a year or two to major in economics. God knows he’s good at what he does - he won Nationals last year, for fuck’s sake, the second youngest Canadian man ever to do so.

Unfortunately for him, though, none of that really adds up to Tessa’s type, which is (as far as he can tell) older, cosmopolitan, a little blasé, and something of an asshole. Fedor would actually be an excellent example of said type. Scott _hated_ him, hates him still, with a single-minded fervency that scares Chiddy just a little.

In fact, it seems as if most of the male skaters at Arctic Edge have bonded around their shared loathing of Fedor. Patrick can’t count the number of weekends he’s sat around someone’s living room or basement, all the guys sitting around hanging out, beer bottles sweating rings on mismatched furniture, and someone will inevitably bring it up.

“Saw Fedor with so-and-so at the rink the other day,” someone will say, throwing in the name one of the younger girls, and there’s always a crackle of tension that runs through the room like someone’s exposed a live wire.

“Fucking _Fedor_ ,” one of the guys will mutter, taking a deep drink. Every other man in the room will glare fiercely, and there will be a murmured chorus of _yeah, fuck him_ and _fucking douchebag_ , not to mention _asshole, going after some kid again_. Patrick will keep his mouth shut, because he has absolutely no intention of defending Fedor and also has no skin in this game, so to speak.

At least, he didn’t until late last fall, sitting around in Charlie White’s cavernous basement (and wasn’t it nice that the Whites were well-off), choking down Fireball when he vastly preferred white wine, but apparently that wasn’t a thing when hanging out with the guys. Scott was across the room, howling with laughter at some argument between Alex Shibutani and Ben Agosto. All three parties appeared to be edging towards happily buzzed, and there was a lot of yelling going on. Patrick just curled up on the couch with his half-filled glass of whisky and wondered if Scott planned on staying until the wee hours again and needing a designated driver, because they were riding together and he really hated driving Scott’s truck. It was a standard, and every time he tried to shift gears, it literally screamed at him.

He was so busy worrying about the damn truck that he didn’t notice the conversation around him until there was an alarming thud from the far side of the room and everything went dead silent.

“What the fuck did you just say?” Scott snapped, low and venomous. The question seemed to be directed at Poje, who was standing by the stairs with a nervous expression. As everyone’s attention turned to Andrew with the intensity of a strobe light, he shrugged, turning a little pink.

“Dude, I thought you knew,” he said, shrugging again. Patrick was lost - very, very lost. Knew _what?_ And why was this information making Scott look like he was about to lose his shit?

“The hell I did,” Scott said, loudly, and Patrick noticed with alarm that both his fists were clenched. “You think I’d be here, doing _this_ , if I knew? Fuck it, where are they?”

Ben Agosto looked over in alarm.

“Scott, man,” he said, carefully, “I don’t know that there’s a whole lot you can _do_ \- ”

Scott didn’t let him finish.

“Where the _fuck_ did he take her?” he gritted out between his teeth. “Dammit, man, you _know_ what he’s like, do you think there’s any way in hell I’m gonna let her - ”

Which is when Charlie White stood up from the other end of the couch, beer in hand.

“Scott,” he said quietly, but in that serious tone that Charlie so rarely got. Normally he was a floppy, good-natured puppy of a human being, but that serious tone generally meant that he was, for once, getting down to business. “This has been going on for a couple of weeks now. And I get that Fedor’s a worthless ass, believe me I do, but you can’t go charging around town drunk and pissed-off trying to grab Tessa and haul her home. She’s an adult, you know. Not a hell of a lot you can do about it.”

Scott shook his head, fiercely.

“You don’t _understand_ ,” and under all the anger, there was a note of pleading that Patrick had very rarely heard from him before. “She’s so fucking young, and Fedor…”

Charlie’s face twisted with something like sympathy.

“Yeah, I know, Fedor’s a _dick_ ,” he said, with considerably more venom than the occasion seemed to warrant. “But still. What can you do?”

It was a bit like watching a caged lion, seeing Scott look around in angry confusion, hands fidgeting restlessly with the label of his beer bottle. He looked desperate, Patrick thought suddenly, like he needed to _do_ something, needed to _go_ , but what was there to do?

“Fuck it all,” he muttered finally. “Grab your jacket, Chiddy, we’ve gotta go.”

Patrick could _feel_ his eyebrows shooting up. Jesus, but he was not equipped to drive Scott’s truck over half of Canton looking for Fedor and Tessa, neither of whom were probably going to be happy to be interrupted even on the off chance they could actually be found.

But Scott was his best friend, and that meant he could have one reaction, and one only.

“Okay,” he muttered, and went to pull his jacket off the back of a chair. Charlie White stopped him with one hand on his arm.

“Don’t let him do anything stupid, okay?” he said, looking worried, which was when Patrick started getting an inkling that things were considerably weirder than he had previously assumed. “He’s buzzed, and pissed off, and things with him and Tessa...well, anyway, don’t let him do anything stupid.”

Patrick nodded, trying not to look too bewildered, and headed up the stairs after Scott, with everyone watching as they went, and damn if _that_ wasn’t awkward. 

“Let me see your keys,” he said when they were out Charlie’s front door, and Scott turned to him and frowned.

“Your keys, dude,” Patrick said again, insistently, and Scott’s jaw tightened.

“I’m fine,” he said stubbornly, even though he _clearly_ was not. Fuck. If Scott dug in his heels, this was going to be a very, very long night.

“No, you’re not,” Patrick said as calmly as he could. He was eighteen to Scott’s twenty-one, but he could swear there were times he felt like the damned adult in the friendship. This would be one of those times. “You’re half-drunk, and pissed off, and not thinking straight. So give me your damn keys.”

Scott glared at him.

“You won’t help me,” he said, accusingly, and it took Patrick a second to figure out what he meant.

“If you mean I won’t help you stalk Tess and her boyfriend and haul her home against her will, then yeah, you’re right. I’m not going to help you. Go get in the truck, Scott, you’re being stupid.”

For a minute, and a minute only, he was a little afraid. Scott only had an inch or so on him, but he was solid muscle through and through, and if he really wanted to push the issue, Patrick knew he was toast.

After a minute, though, Scott sullenly dug in his pants pocket and produced his key ring, then rounded the back of his truck with a bad-tempered slam of his fist on the edge of the bed. Then, there was a very loud thud; Patrick figured if Scott felt like slamming the door hard enough that the entire vehicle rattled as a result, well, it was his damn truck.

The drive home was silent, for the most part, until they pulled up at a stop light (with considerable effort on Patrick’s part, Scott muttering _shift to third, Chiddy, THIRD_ until they juddered to a precarious halt).

It was there, in the weird red glow of the stop light, that Scott rolled his head sideways on the back of his seat and stared directly at Patrick for the first time since they got in the car.

“I’m not trying to be an ass, Chiddy,” he said, softly, and Patrick looked at him, completely helpless. He didn’t know what to say to make this better, wasn’t really even sure _why_ Scott had reacted this badly to the news that Tessa was dating the resident Don Juan of Arctic Edge. Sure, it wasn’t great, but this level of anger seemed a little...unprecedented.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied, although it sounded weak even to his own ears. “Just...I mean...she’s gonna do what she wants, y’know?”

It didn’t come out right, from the shuttered look that came over Scott’s face, but Patrick _knew_ he got the meaning. Tessa was just as stubborn as he was, sometimes even more so, and lately she  had even more of a fiercely independent streak. Patrick didn’t know for sure, but he thought it probably had to do with her surgery last year and whatever the hell went down between them then. Scott hadn’t talked to anyone about it, as far as he could tell, not even his brothers.

“Yeah, I know,” Scott muttered darkly. “Believe me, I know. It’s just...I’m supposed to take care of her. I _want_ to take care of her. I want to...after last year, I want to...I dunno, just…”

And at that point, the light turned green and all of Scott’s focus turned to helping Patrick get his truck moving again without destroying his engine in the process.

They drove straight to Scott and Andrew’s apartment, no further discussion of a manhunt for Tessa and the elusive Fedor, but on the way up the stairs, Scott’s hand came down on his shoulder, a warm, familiar weight.

“I screwed up last year,” he said, baldly, bluntly, honest as only Scott could be. “I screwed up. I _fucked_ up, Chid, and I...I can’t afford to let it happen again. Okay?”

Patrick turned halfway around and looked down at him, standing one step below, eyes feverishly bright even in the dim light of the stairwell.

“Is he really…” he started, trying to palliate the situation, to smooth out the rough edges, but the tightening of Scott’s mouth told him very quickly that this was no longer an option.

“Yeah, he fucking is,” and Patrick knew that tone, knew it very well. It spelled danger and split knuckles and threats in the parking lot. He had been to enough bars with Scott Moir by that point to know that voice. “He’s eight years older than her, for one, and he doesn’t give a good _fuck_ who he sleeps with as long as they’re young and hot. And she’s both.”

Patrick turned all the way around and somehow, by a damn miracle, managed to keep his face neutral. Tessa was definitely young, although technically she was a year and a half older than him. But since when had Scott started calling his partner _hot?_

“Uh-huh,” he managed, which was about all he felt capable of just at the moment. Then the muscle in Scott’s jaw jumped all of a sudden, and he kicked moodily at the top of the step (and why he felt the need to have this conversation in the damn _stairwell_ instead of inside like a sensible human being was really anybody’s guess).

“If he hurts her, I swear to God I’m gonna kill him,” he said, low and rumbling. Patrick opened his mouth to say something, possibly along the lines of _he’s your coach’s son, are you insane_ , and then closed it again. There was no point when he was like this, and he’d been like this as long as Patrick had known him. He was fiercely protective of Tessa, both on and off the ice, and it only seemed to have intensified lately. Since the surgery. Since whatever had happened immediately before and after.

“I know,” is what he settled on as a response, which seemed fairly pleasant and calming. Scott looked around, as if suddenly realising he was standing on the stairs in the chilly night air for no apparent reason, and then sat down hard. With a sigh, Patrick joined him. The stairs were cold. And hard. His ass would’ve vastly preferred the couch inside. But Scott was clearly upset about something, and this was his best friend, and therefore...stairs. Hard, cold stairs.

“She knows you’ll look out for her,” he said, nudging Scott with his shoulder. His friend just picked at a hole in his jeans, blunt fingers digging into the denim like it committed a personal offense against him.

“It’s not like that...she doesn’t...ah, _fuck it_ ,” Scott snapped, and reared back, banging his elbow hard on the step above him. He cursed freely for a moment, rubbing the joint with his other hand, and then subsided into something that wasn’t quite moody and definitely not sulky. Melancholy, Patrick thought. It was such an old-fashioned word, but...melancholy.

“I just wanna take care of her,” he whispered finally. “I just wanna keep her safe. I _have_ to keep her safe, Chiddy. Or it’s my fault if…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but then again, he didn’t have to.

“Yeah,” Patrick breathed, and then bumped his shoulder again. “Hey.”

Scott turned his head, eyes dark and stormy in the dim light. “Hey what?”

“If you go beat up Fedor, you can take me along. As your back-up. Or whatever.”

Finally, _finally_ , Scott grinned. It wasn’t his usual wide, shit-eating grin, but it was still _there_.

“Okay, fine,” he said, and used his non-injured elbow to jab Patrick in the side. “I’ll take you along for when I beat his pretty-boy face in. Tell the cops he fell or something, yeah?”

“I never saw a damn thing,” Patrick said, and knew it was the right response when Scott chuckled and hauled his ass up off the cold concrete.

“Come on, Chid, it’s fucking cold out here,” he said, and they climbed the steps together.

Patrick hasn’t forgotten the look in his eyes that night, though, or the way his voice darkened, deepened, when he talked about Fedor being with Tess. Hasn’t forgotten the way he said _she’s both_ as if somewhere in his mind he’d already started thinking of Tessa as the incredibly beautiful girl she is.

Patrick remembers it all. But these days, he’s choosing to ignore everything he knows for the sake of Tessa’s prettiest smile.


	2. can't hold out forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Young Chiddy asks Tessa on a date, listens to classic rock, and lies to his best friend. 
> 
> (two of these things are going to end very, very badly...I'll let you guess which)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments on Chapter 1! Sorry it has taken a bit to get Chapter 2 up...real life has been stressful the last couple of weeks. However, I am about to brew a lovely cup of tea, do some cooking, and enjoy a peaceful, rainy Sunday, so it seems like the perfect time to post the next chapter of this funny little fic. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, in which Chiddy makes some questionable decisions. Don't get too mad at him - he's young and foolish and utterly adorable (as always). And it's going to come right in the end. Also, you know that I stan the Scott/Chiddy bromance almost as much as I ship V/M, which is going some.
> 
> Come holler at me about what you think! (also on Twitter @fairwinds09, if you prefer to holler that way)
> 
> Chapter title is from "Can't Fight This Feeling," by REO Speedwagon. 
> 
> "Oh, I can't fight this feeling any longer  
> And yet I'm still afraid to let it flow  
> What started out this friendship has grown stronger  
> I only wish I had the strength to let it show  
> I tell myself that I can't hold out forever  
> I said there is no reason for my fear..."
> 
> It seemed kind of perfect for Chiddy's tenuous, fragile little romance at this point in the fic. 
> 
> ~M
> 
> P.S. Fair warning: there's mild hinting at Fedor taking advantage of T in this chapter, but no vivid descriptions or anything of that sort. Just thought y'all might want to know.

This foolish crush on Tessa is why, when he gets a text from Scott in Colorado, his heart goes into double-time when he sees her name in the middle of it.

It’s nothing special, just normal Scott Moir texting skills:

\-- _when r u coming to canton? T says she misses u_

_\--i don’t miss u_

_\--okay maybe_

_\--don’t tell Poje_

He snickers and types back, in perfect English:

_\--I’m coming in next weekend. Tell Tess I miss her too._

And then he slides his phone shut and stares at it for a long minute. He doesn’t have a chance in hell with her, and he _knows_ it, but it doesn’t matter. Lately, when he closes his eyes at night, all he can see is Tessa Virtue’s pretty face, the bright smile she gave him the last time he was in Canton.

“Patrick Chan!” she’d laughed, and jumped up from her seat on Scott’s couch to hug him. He’d smelled her perfume, light and floral, and strawberries from her shampoo, and felt that small, strong body against his, and suddenly it was entirely too much. He’d flushed bright red and pulled away rather quickly, and just like that, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. And not as the friend and fellow troublemaker from years and years of competitions, or the skinny girl who glared at Scott when he’d punch Patrick too hard when they wrestled. He couldn’t stop thinking about her _romantically_.

The thing is, Tessa’s always been pretty. Even as a little girl, she was pretty. (He’s seen the pictures at the Moirs’ house.) It was just something he _knew_ , the same way he knew Scott was funny and outgoing and Kaitlyn was sweet but a little ditzy, or that Charlie White had a thing for Tanith. Tessa was tiny and green-eyed and pretty, and it was never a _thing_ until a few months ago when she hugged him and suddenly everything was different.

And ever since he can’t stop the craziness. He knows she’s with Fedor. When he goes to Canton, it’s painfully obvious. She never brings Fedor around her friends, just disappears for hours on end and comes back flushed and looking very guilty. One time, he remembers, she walked in to Scott’s apartment with an obvious hickey high on her neck. Scott took one look at her, made an odd sort of choked noise, and vanished into his bedroom. After about 30 minutes, Patrick went to look for him and found him methodically throwing punch after punch, bare-handed, at the small punching bag in the corner of his room - the one he normally used for working out at home when he and Andrew didn’t want to bother going to the gym.

“What the hell are you _doing?_ ” he’d asked, shocked, and Scott had gritted his teeth so hard Patrick could hear it all the way across the room.

“That _fucker_ ,” he’d hissed, and rammed his hand into the bag again. From what Patrick could see, his skin was already torn and bleeding. “ _Marking_ her like that. Like she’s his fucking _property_. Like he fucking owns her. If I could get away with it, I’d kill him tomorrow.”

At the time, Patrick didn’t doubt it.

“Dude,” he’d said, making a grab for Scott’s wrist before his hand made contact with the bag again, “I know you’re hyper-protective of her, but God. Calm down a little, yeah?”

Scott had yanked his wrist free with something that sounded suspiciously like a growl.

“Scott,” he’d snapped. “She’s a grown-up. She can make decisions for herself, you know.”

And then he’d stopped at the look in Scott’s eyes.

“You don’t think...fuck, Scott, you don’t think he’d ever...I don’t know, take advantage of her…”

He’d trailed off in horror, and Scott had looked down at the floor, where a drop of two of his own blood was sinking into the ugly blue-grey carpeting.

“I don’t know,” he’d said, very quietly. “She won’t tell me. I told her - I told her over and over, that if he ever did anything...but she won’t tell me. Hell, maybe I’m an idiot, maybe she _likes_ it.”

His voice had cracked on the second to last word.

“I don’t know, Scott,” Patrick had said, helplessly. “But if he doesn’t treat her right…”

“She deserves that, you know?” he’d said, speaking too fast, his breath coming in gusts between his teeth. “She deserves a good guy. A stand-up guy. Someone who...who respects her. Who _cares_ about her. Not - not fucking _Fedor_.”

And at the time Patrick had taken the statement at face value. Lately, though...lately, he’s started wondering. What if there _were_ a good guy, a respectful, stand-up guy who _absolutely_ cared for Tessa, someone who was willing to wait in the wings until whatever was going on with Fedor ultimately blew up? What if that guy were kind, and reasonably intelligent, and never, _ever_ willing to step one toe out of line with such an amazing, beautiful, funny girl?

Surely, _surely_ , Scott couldn’t object to that.

And so, when Scott calls him two days later, on a sunny April afternoon in Toronto, and says with undisguised glee in his voice that Tessa and Fedor are no longer an item, and he’s moved on to some girl named Emily, Patrick suddenly sees his chance. It’s a long shot, and he knows it. He has no good reason to think that pretty, smart, talented Tessa Virtue wants to date _him_ , of all people. But he also knows he’s never going to get a chance like this again.

With shaking fingers, he texts her.

_\--Hey Tess, just wondered if you might want to grab dinner when I come up next weekend_ , he types out. He goes back and re-words the original text at least five times, until he finally ends up with what he said in the first place. At which point he considers throwing his phone across the room, closes his eyes tightly, and presses “Send.”

Then he hides his phone under the bed and pretends to be studying his organic chem textbook until he hears the telltale buzzing thirty minutes later.

_\--Hi Chiddy! I’d love to. Want to try the new Italian place on Geddes Saturday night?_

He freezes, staring at the little rectangle in his hands. The neatly typed words wink up at him mockingly. _I’d love to. I’d love to._

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. She said _yes_ , she agreed to go to dinner with him, she’s going to go on a _date_ with him, with Patrick Lewis Wai-Kuan Chan, who has never in his life been on a date with a girl anywhere _close_ to Tessa Virtue levels of gorgeous. He nearly hyperventilates just at the thought.

And then a terrible, terrible idea strikes him.

What if she doesn’t _realise_ it’s a date? What if she thinks he’s just being friendly, just two members of Team Canada hanging out like they have at hotels and competitions and backstage hallways for years on end? That won’t do at all.

So, taking a very deep breath, Patrick Chan does the absolute bravest thing of his young life to date and types out, with sweaty palms,

_\--It’s a date!_

And then he buries his phone under three pairs of shoes and five sweatshirts in his closet, crawls into bed, and pretends to take a nap. It works for about 30 minutes, and then he just can’t take it anymore. He _has_ to know. He has to.

He digs out his phone, and very gingerly, presses the power button to wake it up.

Across the screen he sees her name as the sender, and he nearly loses it then and there. With an act of superhuman courage, he holds it out at arm’s length and squints.

_\--Sounds great. ;)_

She winked. She fucking _winked._

He’s on cloud nine for the next two days.

* * *

By day three, it occurs to him, somewhere in the back of his brain, that he probably needs to tell Scott. His best friend. Tessa’s partner. Who has been been weirdly territorial about her lately.

But he doesn’t. Partly because there’s a niggling suspicion that Scott’s weirdness over the past year or two has been driven by something more than protecting his partner the way he always has...partly because this is something Patrick wants for _himself_. He loves Scott - he really does. He’s a damned good friend. But he’s so...big. Not literally, although he’s certainly bigger than Patrick. But he’s larger than life, loud and funny and always on the move. Growing up beside him, the outgoing Moir boy with a personality twice as big as his body, Patrick has always felt a little smaller, a little quieter. He doesn’t mind, really.

And God knows Scott has never realised it - he’d be horrified if he did. He’s the kind of friend who would give the shirt off his back to help someone, who is loyal to a fault, who loves relentlessly. Patrick will never tell him that sometimes he envies Scott his confidence, his brashness, the cocky certainty that comes with being the beloved baby of a very large extended family. He’ll never, ever tell Scott that sometimes he’d give his right arm to be able to strut into a rink like that, wink at the girls and grin cockily at his coaches. That he’d give his right arm to have a girl like Tessa look at him like _that_ sometimes.

He loves Scott, but this - this _thing_ with Tessa, small and fragile as it is, is _his_.

As the week goes on, he notices that it’s getting more and more difficult to breathe normally. There are half a million butterflies in his stomach, and they like to start flitting around at the most inopportune times - in the middle of training, for instance, or doing gym time, or eating dinner with his mother, who keeps telling him that he is daydreaming far too much lately and not paying attention like he ought to be. Even Mr. Laws looked askance at him yesterday in practice and said, “Patrick, what are you _thinking?_ ” when he screwed up his triple lutz for the third time in a row.

And what was he supposed to say to _that? I’m so sorry, Mr. Laws_ , _I was thinking about kissing Tessa Virtue and the very idea makes me want to hyperventilate, so...apologies for the whole triple lutz thing._

Yeah, no.

He packs and re-packs his suitcase at least five times. The first time he packs five different dress shirt and his best slacks, and then he pulls all of _that_ out and re-packs it with jeans and T-shirts, like normal, because he can’t dress like an accountant the entire time he’s in Canton. It’ll be...weird. But he still has no idea what to wear on Saturday night, until it finally occurs to him that he has a computer, and there’s such a thing as a search engine, and he can look up the restaurant Tessa’s talking about and figure out what he ought to wear there.

It takes him about half an hour to find the place he thinks she meant, and it’s nice - business casual, thank God, because he can’t imagine hauling a full dress suit to Canton and hanging it in Scott’s apartment. He irons his best two shirts, meticulously, one the blue pinstripe his aunt got him for Christmas and the other a plain grey. He may not be tall or incredibly buff, but he’ll be damned if he’ll show up for a date with Tessa Virtue in a wrinkled shirt.

When he gets in his car to drive down to Canton, so he can fly out of Detroit on Monday, it suddenly hits him - he’s going to have four hours in the car, alone, to think over his date with Tessa. Four hours to panic mindlessly and sweat through his T-shirt and wish he had never, ever gotten the asinine idea to ask out the prettiest girl he’s ever met.

Fuck.

He cranks up the classic rock until Cream is blasting out the windows, swings onto the 402, and decides to sing himself hoarse in an effort to forget everything but the feel of the wheel beneath his hands.

It works, mostly, although when he pulls into the parking lot of Scott’s apartment complex around 9:00 PM, his voice is scratchy from shouting the lyrics to “Hot for Teacher” five times over. When he knocks on Scott’s door, duffle bag over his shoulder and his neatly pressed shirts in one hand, Poje answers with a grin.

“Dude!” he half-yells. “You’re fucking late. Half the pizza’s gone.”

Patrick smiles and edges his way into the small apartment, which is currently very loud, very overcrowded, and now smells of both nachos and pepperoni.

Scott turns from the couch, controller in his hands, and grins widely.

“Chiddy!” he hollers, happy and loud as hell and already a little buzzed, Patrick can tell. “Go throw your stuff in my room, there’s no place to put it here.”

Patrick is easing past, hoping to God that Scott’s too tipsy and distracted to notice the shirts, when he feels a tug on his sleeve.

“What the fuck is up with the shirts, dude?” Scott says right at his elbow, pinning him with a pair of grinning hazel eyes. “You going to an interview or something?”

Patrick freezes. Tessa’s not here - he scanned the room for her when he first walked in, and she’s nowhere to be seen. It’s kind of a guys’ night anyway, as far as he can tell. But he has no idea what she’s told Scott about tomorrow night, or if she’s told him at all. If he were ever going to come clean, now is the time. But he can’t very well throw her under the bus, can he?

“Uh...just dinner,” he says awkwardly, tugging his arm out of Scott’s grasp. “With a friend...of the family.”

This is only partly a lie. His mother actually likes Tessa quite a bit. But she’s probably not what Scott’s thinking of with the phrase _friend of the family_.

“Oh,” he says, losing interest quickly. “Well, hurry up before all the pizza’s gone. Dammit, Charlie, what the _hell_ did you just do?!”

And then he’s back into his game, hollering at Charlie and Andrew by turns, and Patrick slips away to store his bag and shirts in Scott’s bedroom without further notice.

He stands for a minute, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. The bathroom is a _wreck_ , but he’s very used to that. He tries unsuccessfully to flatten the bits of hair that are sticking up, and finally gives up after it becomes abundantly clear that it’s not going to work. He makes a mental note to borrow some of Scott’s gel before tomorrow night. Slowly, eyes on the mirror, he straightens his shirt, raises his chin. It’s not enough - he knows it’s not enough. There’s no way she’ll want him, not like that, but he still wants to try. Has to try.

He heads back to the living room, filled with too many bodies and too much yelling and the tinny sounds of a video game underscoring everything, picks up a lukewarm slice of pizza, perches on the counter and grins cheerfully at Scott as he pounds on Charlie’s arm for screwing up their score yet again.

He tells himself he’s not lying to his best friend. Not really.

* * *

 The next morning, he wakes up with something scratchy on his cheek, still in his street clothes, and with a heavy weight draped across his shins. He sits up, scrubs at his eyes to clear the sleep out of them, and swipes a hand down his cheek. He comes away with a potato chip that had apparently been pressed to his face while he slept, and when he looks down at his legs, he discovers Charlie White’s floppy blond hair, pillowed neatly on his shins.

“Charlie,” he hisses. The blond mop stirs and there’s a low moan. “Charlie! Get up.”

“Mmmphmm,” Charlie grumbles into Patrick’s ankles. “Jus’...jus’ a few more minutes, mmkay?”

Patrick grunts and shoves him off, much to Charlie’s loud dismay, and leaves him sitting there on the floor, slumped over onto the couch cushion. Sweet Jesus, how much had they all had to drink last night?

The answer to his question lies on the kitchen counter, which is now home to several empty glass bottles, ranging from tequila to Triple Sec to Fireball. All of which goes a long way to explaining the vaguely nauseated feeling that has accompanied him since he opened his eyes, as well as the outrageously trashed state of the apartment.

He stumbles off to the bathroom and ducks into the shower, hoping that perhaps the smell of bad whisky won’t emanate quite so strongly from his pores if he gets cleaned up. It’s in the shower, with his head under the pounding spray, that he remembers: today’s the day. He’s going on a date. With Tessa Virtue. In...oh, _shit_.

He never remembered to ask what time she wanted him to pick her up.

Without a second thought, he throws a towel around his waist and bolts out of the bathroom in search of his phone. He finds it on top of the refrigerator, for no apparent reason, and frantically pulls up their text conversation with damp fingers.

_\--Forgot to ask you - what time would work for you tonight? 7:00 okay?_

And then he spends a good five minutes shivering and dripping onto the kitchen linoleum, because what if she forgot entirely? What if she’s been thinking of a way to get out of this for a solid week now, and she hasn’t come up with an excuse yet, but now he just gave her one? What if she’s going to text him back to say that she doesn’t want to go anymore, or she’s busy at 7:00 and all other times before and after, and what if -

His phone buzzes.

_\--7:00 sounds great! Do you remember my address? Or I can meet you there. Either way is fine._

Oh thank God. She remembered, she still wants to go, and he could do a fucking victory dance in his towel right there in front of the kitchen sink.

And hell no, she’s not meeting him there. He’s going to pick her up, like a _gentleman_.

_\--I’ll pick you up at your place. I remember where it is. See you then!_

He’s grinning like an idiot at the slightly stained backsplash above the stove when Scott wanders in, a quizzical look on his face.

“Chid?” He jerks, and stares bug-eyed at his best friend, who looks more confused than ever.

“Yes?”

Scott gives him a look, one eyebrow cocked, and wanders over to the empty bottles and starts throwing them away. (He’s always been the first to tidy up after a party. Chiddy suspects it’s Tessa’s influence.)

“Just curious…” he says, an empty bottle of vodka between his fingers, “why are you standing my kitchen in a towel, dripping wet, on your phone?”

Patrick starts and flushes, and promptly gets out of his messages. Nobody needs to see those.

“Umm...I...thought I heard it ringing. Came to check before it woke anyone up.”

It’s a lie. It’s a flat-out lie. But what else can he do at this point?

“Oh.” Scott opens the pizza box, stares at the lone slice left in it, assesses it, and then wrinkles his nose and sends it to join the liquor bottles. “Why did you leave the shower going?”

“Sorry, forgot,” Patrick answers, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I’ll just...umm...go get back in it, then.”

Scott snickers and drops a beer bottle in the trash can.

“You do that,” he says, and as he goes down the hall, Patrick hears another melodic clink from the trash can.

Dammit. He just lied. Not even by omission. He lied to his best friend about going on a date with said best friend’s skating partner.

This is not good.


	3. not a thing that i would change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chiddy goes on his date, and things go very, very well. 
> 
> ...at least, until they start going very, very badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. It has been a while. To be honest, a lot has changed since I last published a chapter for this story. I lost my mojo for this and pretty much all other VM fanfic for a while there. 
> 
> But then I started reading stories inspired by the #takebackthetag writers, and thought, "You know what? I have some stuff written. I should chip in." So here I am. 
> 
> I firmly believe that in moments like this, it's important to come together as writers (and as readers) and say, "This is what I want my fandom and fic experience to be. This is how I choose to approach this situation." So this is my choice - continuing a (mostly) light-hearted and loving take on VM and their relationship nearly a decade ago. And, of course, there is Chiddy, who is always a sweet, smiley bean who brings joy to our hearts. 
> 
> Anywhoozles, this is me getting off my soapbox. I hope you enjoy the new chapter, and sorry for the wait. I hope there are parts of this chapter that make you smile, or laugh, or just enjoy the characters for the lovely people they are. As always, it's fiction, but I hope that it reflects a tiny bit of life. 
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> (Title is from Bruno Mars' "Just the Way You Are.")

The day passes quickly - running errands with Scott, dropping by the rink to watch Kaitlyn and Andrew practice, and the whole entire time Patrick has a weight of guilt in his stomach from lying to his best friend, combined with an odd sort of swooping feeling that occurs every time he remembers he has a date with Tessa Virtue at 7:00 PM.

Both get a whole lot worse when they’re at the grocery store and Scott digs out his phone while he’s standing in front of the ice cream section, brow furrowed intently.

“Who’re you calling?” Patrick asks him, mildly curious because Scott is looking at ice cream flavours like he’s trying to find the cure for some sort of deadly disease.

“Tess,” he says absent-mindedly, and he lifts the phone to his ear just as Patrick stumbles into the grocery cart in a mild panic.

“What...I don’t…” he tries, helplessly, but Scott waves at him to shut him up, so he just clings to the cart’s handle and decides to wait silently for the moment when Scott figures out that not only has Patrick been lying to him, but he’s been lying about _Tessa_. Because Patrick isn’t at all sure what’s going on them, and hasn’t been sure for about a year or two now, but he realises suddenly, in the cold blast of air from the ice cream freezers, that Scott’s probably not going to be on board with this whole dating Tessa plan.

“Hey, T,” Scott says, casually, although Patrick notices that he’s fidgeting with a hole in the bottom of his T-shirt, just like he does backstage before competitions when he’s nervous. “So...Chiddy and I are at the store, and I was getting ice cream for tonight, and I was trying to remember what flavour you liked last time, you know, that chocolate fudge strawberry thing, and I…”

He trails off, listening, and his face darkens. Patrick cringes, and then forces himself to stop. He needs to deal with this like a _man_ , he thinks. Not whimpering and shielding himself with a grocery cart.

“What do you mean, you’re not coming tonight?” Scott says, sounding surprised and rather aggrieved. “We always watch movies on Saturday nights. It’s _movie night_. Why, what are you - ”

He pauses, and then pouts. Actually _pouts_.

“Okay, okay, it’s fine. Yeah, T, I know, I just - ”

Another pause.

“No, I didn’t invite Jess, why would I - ”

His voice has hardened, just a little, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, agitated.

“That’s _our_ night, T, I wouldn’t - ”

He kicks at the cart, and Patrick manages to dodge just in time.

“No, Tessa, I had not asked Chiddy.” He sounds ticked off by now. “He has dinner with some family friend or something, I don’t know who. Just...come on, it’s movie night. I’ll buy you that ice cream and make that awful fat-free popcorn stuff. You can even watch _Pride and Prejudice_ , okay?”

He’s practically begging, and Patrick can feel his eyebrows start climbing towards his hair. What the hell is going on that Scott wants her to come over for movie night this badly? He doesn’t remember it being such a big deal the last time he was here on a Saturday night, a month and a half ago. Then again, a month and a half ago, she’d been dating Fedor, and Scott had been moping around and generally being a sulky pain in the ass, so he supposes the situation’s a little different now.

Scott sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping.

“All right, fine, T. No, I...I get it, I do, I just...yeah, I’ll miss you. You know I will.”

He smiles a little, very softly, and Patrick feels a bit like he’s intruding, like there’s something here he shouldn’t hear or see. It’s a very strange feeling. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

“Okay, yeah, T. Yeah. Okay, see you tomorrow. ’Bye.”

He rings off and stands there for a moment, staring into the ice cream case blankly.

“What was all that?” Patrick asks after the moment has progressed from long to just plain awkward. He can figure out _exactly_ what that was about, but it seems like the only good question at this point.

“Huh?” Scott says, still looking lost in thought. “Oh. That. Tess can’t come to movie night. She’s going out with friends for dinner or something.”

Patrick can feel his muscles tense up.

“Oh, yeah?” he replies, going for casual. He sounds a little squeaky, he thinks, but Scott doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah...it’s weird, she didn’t say anything earlier. Maybe she forgot,” Scott muses, running his thumb over his phone case absent-mindedly. “Anyway. Looks like I’m on my own for dinner. Andrew’s gonna be at Kaitlyn’s, like usual.”

“So call Jess and see if she wants to come over,” Patrick suggests, and Scott shrugs, his face closing off. They are on again, for what has to be the fourth or fifth time, and Patrick never knows if Scott’s happy about it or miserable or just putting up with things the way they are until Jess goes running back to Bryce again.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Scott says shortly, and then he’s pushing the cart onto the bread aisle and loading up on the seven-grain wheat bread the nutritionist at Arctic Edge always makes him eat, and they move on to talking about other things.

And even though they wander the length and breadth of Kroger’s and end up buying enough junk food to give both their coaches enormous heart attacks, Scott doesn’t bring up Jess again. It’s all Tessa this and Tessa that and _did I tell you about the thing that happened with her skate yesterday, it was crazy_ , but he doesn’t talk about his girlfriend again the entire time.

Patrick decides that, on the whole, he’s better off not contemplating how weird that is.

* * *

 

He rings her doorbell at 7:00 sharp, breathing faster than normal, worried that he’s so nervous he’ll sweat through his good undershirt, and his good dress shirt, and wouldn’t _that_ just be perfect, on his very first date with Tessa Virtue. (But hopefully not his last.)

She answers quickly, and he just stands there, staring. He’s used to Tessa in practice outfits, or costumes and heavy competition makeup. He’s used to Tessa at gala dinners, all decked out to the nines. He’s used to Tessa at parties, flushed from liquor and laughing in a shirt that shows a sliver of skin above the waistline of her jeans.

He’s not used to this Tessa.

She looks so grown-up, he thinks dazedly, so poised and polished in her pretty dress and ankle boots, a soft blue cotton scarf wound round her neck that contrasts sharply with her pale skin and brings out the emerald in her eyes. And when she smiles a little nervously, her fingers twisting the silver band on her left hand, he’s bowled over yet again.

“Hi, Chiddy,” she says, softly, and he gulps.

“Hi, Tess,” he says, and then gestures to his car, a little too widely. “I, uh...are you ready?”

She bites her lip and nods.

“Yeah, let me just grab a sweater.”

She pulls it off the coat rack just inside the door and off they go.

* * *

 

For all his initial trepidation, the night seems to be going wonderfully. The restaurant is bustling, but quietly so. The maitre d’ remembered his reservation, which was a great relief. And now he’s sitting across from Tessa Virtue, eating rolls and wishing he were old enough to order wine (even though he’s very grateful _she’s_ not, because that would be embarrassing as all hell), and enjoying the way the candlelight makes her eyes glow.

They talk about skating, naturally, and about the upcoming season. She and Scott are scheduled to do TEB in October, and she’s already so nervous, she tells him, but she thinks it’s going to be good. Their free is so challenging, but she really loves it.

“It’s _Mahler_ , you know,” she murmurs with reverence in her eyes. “Grinkov and Gordeeva’s Mahler. We have to do it justice.”

He smiles at her across the table and wants to take her hand, but isn’t quite brave enough yet.

“You will,” he tells her, and he believes it, every word. “You absolutely will. You two will knock it out of the park.”

They talk about school, and how their normal friends (what few they have) are doing college full-time, and how sometimes it feels so strange to be living this life of theirs, where in some ways they are so far ahead and in some ways so very far behind.

“I mean, Tess,” he says as she takes a bite of her eggplant parmigiana, “I can’t even _party_ like a college kid. Not really. Every time I get too crazy at one of Charlie’s ragers, I always wonder if it’s going to impact my training. Like, is this going to cost me a shot at the next comp? Is this going to change the Olympics for me?”

She gets a shadow over her face at the word _Olympics_ , even though it’s no great secret that this is the thing hanging over both of their heads.

“Yeah,” she says, softly, pushing the food around on her plate as if taking the next bite is just too much for her. “I think about that too. Am I doing something to ruin it all?”

He does take her hand this time, but not because he’s trying to flirt or make a move. It’s natural, second nature, like breathing, because she’s his friend, first and last, and he can tell something’s bothering her.

“Tessa,” he says, very gently. “You’re not going to ruin the Olympics, for you or for Scott. It is what it is, okay? You work hard, harder than anyone I’ve ever known, and you’re going to be great. I _know_ that.”

Her eyes get glassy, and he can see her throat bob as she swallows. Her fingers grip around his, tight.

“Thanks, Chiddy,” she whispers. “I just...I…”

She fumbles for words, and he wants to hug her, but he doesn’t want her to think he’s being an ass and using her emotions to seduce her, so he stays in his seat.

“I know,” he says, which is true, he does. He knows the pressure of wanting to be the best in the whole world, wanting to disprove your own doubts and those of your enemies (and worse, your friends), wanting to push past everything that screams _not good enough_ on a daily basis. He knows it, perhaps in a different way than she does, but he still knows it.

She squeezes his fingers one last time and pulls away, staring out the window. Finally, she huffs out a breath and turns back to him with a shaky smile. He’s glad, he’s so glad that it’s her real smile though, not the polished ones she puts on for the cameras. He’s known her far too long for that.

“I’m being an awful date, Chiddy,” she apologises, and he shakes his head.

“You couldn’t be,” is what comes out of his mouth, which is so fucking sappy it shocks even him. She turns pink, but the smile gets a little stronger.

“Really, though,” he says, emboldened. “Tell you what - let’s finish up, and then go get dessert. Poje told me about this place over in Plymouth that has dark chocolate _everything_. And you know how much you love chocolate…”

Her eyes light up like firecrackers, sparking brilliantly.

“But...my diet…” she says, looking at the bread and the pasta and no doubt calculating every single calorie in her head.

“Tessa,” he says, very seriously, “forget about the diet. Just for tonight. It’s a cheat day. Or cheat night. Or whatever. Just...have fun with me tonight, okay? Work extra hard at the gym tomorrow if you want to, but let’s go get dark chocolate and hang out too late and have _fun_. Okay?”

She wavers, nibbling on her lower lip (and yeah, that’s very distracting, he should really stop looking at that) and then smiles, bright and bold and beautiful, so damn beautiful.

“Okay,” she says, and bounces in her chair like a five-year-old.

He thinks he might be a little in love.

* * *

 

She loves the chocolate shop. Actually, to say she loves it might be an understatement. She is _crazy_ about the chocolate shop, from the glowing lights that beckon them in from the darkness of the street to the exposed brick of the walls. But it’s the smell, really, that seems to entice her the most. She stops in the doorway as he holds the door open for her and closes her eyes and breathes it in, deep into her lungs, like she somehow needs this smell to live.

“Oh my _God_ ,” she murmurs, and then moans. Actually moans.

He can’t stop himself, his brain just goes there, because that is _not_ a platonic noise. Or a friendly one. That is a...well, that’s another kind of noise entirely.

He manages to give himself a sharp mental kick and puts a hand on her upper back, in very innocent territory.

“Tess?” he says, hesitant to disrupt what seems to be some sort of communion with the divine. “Umm...do you want to go inside?”

She breathes in one more time and looks over her shoulder at him with rapture in her eyes.

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, with great emphasis, and he’s laughing as they walk in. He promptly stops laughing when she grabs his hand in hers.

“ _Chiddy_ ,” she says, and he can’t tell if she’s excited or outraged or what. “ _Patrick Lewis Chan_.”

“Umm...yes?” he says, and refrains from pointing out she left out some names, but that’s fine, really. “Tessa Jane McCormick Virtue?”

She giggles, so light and sweet it falls like spun sugar in the air, and then throws both arms around his neck, hard.

“This is the best place _ever_ ,” she says in his ear, and he relaxes, hugging her back. He kind of wants to do a fist pump, even though he won’t, because dammit, he did this _right_ , and she’s _happy_ , and he is winning at life in every conceivable way right now.

She pores over the chocolates for what seems like forever, until he gently nudges her in the side.

“Tessa?” he says. “I really don’t care if you get all of them. Pick a whole bunch of them and try them all out, if that’s what you want. But...and believe me, I hate to tell you this...they’re closing at 10:00.”

She looks at him like her world just crumbled.

“10:00?” she gasps. “But that’s…”

“In 20 minutes, yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry. I know that this is a great blow.”

“Shut up,” she says, and elbows him. “I have to _pick_ , this is _serious_.”

“Shutting up,” he says, and grins.

It takes her the better part of fifteen minutes to pick the perfect round dozen of chocolates, plus some fudge, and then her eye lights on the case with tray after tray of different kinds of bark.

“Ooh, peppermint bark!” she says, elated. “Scott _loves_ that stuff - I think his grandma used to make it for him or something. But he says the store-bought kind always tastes wrong. I should...I mean…”

She stops herself suddenly and looks up at him, with a guilty expression that reminds him a bit of a nervous kitten.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t - ” she says, but he waves a hand. “No, I’ll buy it, Chiddy, don’t - ”

“Tess, it’s okay!” he says, mostly to keep her from going into a tailspin. “It’s fine. I’ll get it, it’s no big deal. He’s my friend, too. Hell, I’m staying with him. It’ll be like a thank-you gift or whatever.”

She nods, appeased, and he pulls out his wallet. Honestly, he’s never bought sweets for another guy on a date before, but he supposes there’s a first for everything. And the two of them have always been weirdly close, with their own special looks and fist bumps and their little coded language that sometimes even he can’t figure out. He really doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

When they get back out to the sidewalk, the chilly April air whipping around them as the evening breeze kicks up, she shivers and he puts an arm around her shoulders, feeling very chivalrous.

“Ready to head home?” he says, and she smiles, stifling a yawn.

“Yeah,” she says. “But only if I can sample my chocolates in your car.”

He laughs. He eats in the car all the time - he’d cleaned it out two days ago, actually, and vacuumed out the inside just to make sure he didn’t look like a complete mess in front of her.

“Absolutely you can,” he replies, and pulls her just a little closer. “But I want one too.”

“Deal,” she says cheerfully, and when she smiles up at him as he holds the car door for her and she slides into the front seat, he feels his heart stutter a little in his chest

* * *

 

By the time they get to her house, which she currently shares with three other skaters, it’s getting kind of late (at least for two athletes who are used to a fairly strict sleep regimen), and she’s tried at least five chocolates. She also made delighted moaning noises at each, which made it very difficult to keep his mind on his driving and his thoughts out of the gutter. He did his damned level-best, though, even when she twined her fingers through his as they hit the outer edges of town and sat there like that, contentedly, all the way to her house.

“We’re here,” he announces, rather unnecessarily, and she lets go of his hand, gathers up the little paper bag with her chocolates and Scott’s peppermint bark, and reaches for the door handle, and he shakes his head at her firmly.

“Hold on,” he says; he cuts the engine and gets out to walk around and open it for her. (He’s not surprised that she’s not used to having her date do so, since her last boyfriend was _Fedor_ and he’s a fucking asshole, but he’s determined to prove that he, Patrick Chan, can at the very least do better than _that_.)

“I’ll walk you to your door,” he says, neatly divesting her of the confectioners’ bags, and this time _he’s_ the one who takes her hand. She smiles, a little bemused, but walks along beside him anyway.

“You’re so old-fashioned,” she says as they make their way up the porch steps together. “I think I like it.”

The butterflies in his stomach have made a sudden and violent resurgence.

“Yeah?” he says, a little breathlessly. He sets the paper bags down on the railing of the porch and turns to face her. The dim yellow of the porch light  glints off her hair and the silver of her ring, and he’s not sure _why_ he’s so nervous, only that he is.

“Yeah,” she says, arching an eyebrow, and then he’s not entirely sure what happened, but her hands are on his cheeks, cold against his face, and she’s stepped closer until he can count every eyelash.

“I had a lovely time tonight,” she says, and his heart’s pounding so fast it feels like there’s a timpani going right in his ears.

“Good, I’m really glad,” he says, and somehow or other his hands have found their way to her waist, right under the hem of her black jacket. “I...I really hoped you would.”

She smiles and skims a thumb over his cheekbone.

“I really needed this,” she says softly. “Just with...Marina, and all the pressure, and then things with _him_ , and…”

Patrick is confused, just a little.

“With Scott?” he says, and her eyes flash up to his, looking strangely panicked.

“Umm...no,” she says, and takes a shallow breath. “With...well, with Fedor. It hasn’t been…”

And then her chin trembles, and he doesn’t even _think_ about what is about to happen on her front porch, just hugs her tight, like he has at every comp and gala and banquet they’ve had together since they were kids.

“Oh, Tess,” he breathes as her arms slide around his neck, “he was an _ass_. Is an ass, actually. You can do so much better.”

He realises abruptly how that sounds, under the circumstances, and flinches as she eases back, laughing...but there’s no edge to it, just soft shining eyes and genuine affection in the curve of her lips.

“Well, you’re definitely an improvement, Chiddy,” she says, and then without any warning whatsoever she leans in and presses her lips to his.

It’s very brief, just a swift brush of mouths and then she steps back, dropping her hands and looking up at him wide-eyed. His heart is pounding, though, so fast and hard he thinks his chest might explode. His throat feels choked and thick, and there’s a heavy blush creeping over the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones.

“I...umm…” she whispers uncertainly, and this is it. This is the moment. He can either step up and meet her halfway or slink away with his metaphorical tail between his legs.

“Right,” he says, which may be the stupidest thing anyone’s ever said in this situation ever, and then he cups her face in both hands, bends down a little, and kisses her. Properly.

She stiffens against him for one second, one heart-stopping, terrifying second, and then she sighs, wraps both arms around his neck, and kisses him back. It’s a little slow, a little clumsy, as most first kisses tend to be, but her skin is like silk beneath the pads of his fingers, and she smells like flowers and vanilla, and she’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.

After a moment, she breaks away for air. He gasps a little, because he’s not sure he remembers _how_ to breathe at this point, and she grins up at him, a little flushed.

“So…” she says, slowly, a little wickedly, “that might have been better than chocolate. Maybe.”

He grins back, despite the nerves, because Tessa’s _flirting_ , playing, and it’s so damn cute. (Also, if that was better than chocolate, he’s doing very well indeed. A small burst of pride swells in his chest.)

“Any way I can change that _maybe_?” he says, very daringly, and she raises an eyebrow.

“You can try,” she says, still grinning, and, taking his hand, gently pushes him up against the broad wooden post of the porch and steps into his space.

“Oh,” he says, rather lamely. “Umm…”

“Just be still,” she says, smirking, and then she pops up on her tiptoes, slides a hand into his hair, and _kisses_ him. It’s fast and hot and open-mouthed, and when she slides her tongue against his bottom lip, he thinks he just might die. Holy shit, but he’s French-kissing _Tessa Virtue_ , who is currently pressing herself up against him and digging her nails into his forearm and he has never been more grateful in his whole life for something to lean on, because he’s pretty sure his own legs won’t hold him up at this point.

It’s heaven, pure and complete heaven.

And then suddenly, right in the midst the angels singing, there is an extremely loud thud, a sort of furious roar, and a very familiar voice yells, “What the _fuck?!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Second note, for anyone interested in minutiae:
> 
> I have made the timeline and the locations as accurate as possible. If you notice something out of place, please let me know and I'll do my best to fix it. (Although if it's going to completely wreck the story, I may just leave it in, to be perfectly honest.) 
> 
> Patrick's internal commentary about his mother seems a little snarky, but he spoke in an interview in 2013 about how much of a daily presence she was in his life even after he was an adult, and the difficulties inherent in that. (You can read the article for yourself here: <https://olympics.nbcsports.com/2013/10/28/patrick-chan-mother-karen-figure-skating/>) 
> 
> I will be completely honest: writing every single guy at Arctic Edge hating Fedor may not have been completely accurate, but I will fight anyone who challenges me. He seems like the kind of guy that everyone would love to hate, but couldn't actually do anything about because of who his mom was. ;)
> 
> Oh, and last but definitely not least, Scott's commentary about Chiddy in the latest podcast made my little heart grow at least three whole sizes. They are the perfect bromance, and I love them dearly.


End file.
